


Fly Away Home

by glasslogic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-06
Updated: 2012-12-06
Packaged: 2017-11-20 10:50:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/584586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glasslogic/pseuds/glasslogic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam never liked witches much, and nothing about being sent half a century back in time is likely to change his mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fly Away Home

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for the 2012 SPN Reverse Big Bang.  
> Artist sammycolt24: http://sammycolt24.livejournal.com/2321.html  
> Masterpost on LJ: http://glasslogic.livejournal.com/40090.html

FLY AWAY HOME

Sam had always known taking the job in Meeteetse, Wyoming was a mistake. Whatever the state had to offer in open roads and amazing scenery didn't make up for the fact that his brother couldn't even mention the name of the city without snickering. It was a bad sign when he wanted to hit Dean before they even _started_ a job.

His own irritation with his brother didn't make it open season for anyone else though, especially not a teenage witch on their suspect list for multiple attempted murders.

“Look,” Sam finally interrupted Peter’s litany of mumbled nonsense and nervous half-glances over to where Dean lay prone on the barn floor, “take a deep breath, and just _tell me what happened_. I’m not going to hurt you.” Sam wasn’t entirely sure that last part was a true statement, but he certainly wasn’t going to do anything until he knew what was wrong with Dean. What happened after would depend on what the hell had happened in the first place. 

Peter cast another glance at Dean and rubbed sweaty hands on his jeans. He swallowed hard and nodded, still refusing to meet Sam’s eyes. “It was supposed to be me,” the teenager muttered. “He wasn’t -- it was supposed to be me!” 

Sam’s eyes narrowed as the narrative broke off. 

Peter’s tongue tripped over itself as he hurried to fill in the silence. “It was just a stupid spell. I wanted to find out… it doesn’t matter. I wasn’t hurting anyone! It was supposed to be me,” he repeated, gaze sliding off Sam’s face and back to the shadows of the barn.

“ _What_ was supposed to be you?” Sam demanded. “What did you do to _my brother_?”

“ _I_ didn’t do anything! _He_ grabbed me, it wasn’t my fault! If he had just minded his own business, he would be fine!”

Sam swallowed his anger down, struggling to speak calmly. "What does the spell do?”

“It’s a--" Peter twisted his hands together awkwardly, like he couldn’t find the right words to explain. Sam’s fear grew in the long pause while the boy struggled, “--seeing spell.”

“Seeing? Like the “cute girl from your chemistry class” seeing? Maybe catching her in the shower kind of stuff?” That didn’t sound so bad. At least not on the survivability scale. And it was the sort of thing a teenager might be dabbling in magic for -- but Peter was shaking his head before Sam even finished speaking, and the worried, guilty looks he was giving Dean caused Sam’s stomach to tie itself in knots. 

“I’m not allowed to tell you.”

Sam shifted so his jacket swung back, revealing the gun on his hip. 

Instead of loosening his tongue like Sam had hoped, the sight seemed to help Peter recover his footing. He gathered the remains of his dignity and straightened up. “You can shoot me if you want, but I can’t tell you. It wouldn’t help you anyways,” he added hastily. “I can’t fix this. I wouldn’t even know where to start. At the best anything I tried would probably just kill him faster.”

“So he’s dying.”

“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. He surprised me, and I pushed him…”

Sam rubbed at the throbbing spot between his eyebrows. “Did you hex the girls at your school?”

Peter gasped. “What? No! I would _never_ \--"

Sam believed him. An entire life spent lying and ferreting out liars had given him excellent instincts, and the kid was already unbalanced by whatever the hell had happened to Dean. 

“Someone hurt some of your classmates with magic; the shop owner gave us a few names. You were on it.” Sam managed to keep himself from sneaking his own glance at Dean lying motionless on the hard packed dirt of the barn floor. “He just… wanted to ask you some questions.” They hadn’t actually discussed what the end game was if the witch they were chasing turned out to be a sixteen year old kid when they had split up the shop owner’s list, but it was a moot point now.

“It wasn’t me. I _swear_.”

“I don’t care about that anymore. I _do_ care about my brother.”

“I told you, I can’t--"

“Fine,” Sam ground out, resisting the urge to hit him. “Who can?”

~~~~~

“What were you thinking?!”

Peter said nothing; having received a hard slap at his first stammered answer he had apparently decided that silence was the better part of valor. The woman facing him down in the room of angry adults was not, in Sam’s experienced estimation, the most dangerous in the room. But she was certainly the most volatile. 

“What the hell were you _possibly_ thinking!?”

Peter just stared at his threadbare sneakers, wavy brown hair hanging in a defensive curtain around his face. Sam didn’t think the show of submission would save the teenager from another slap, but it wasn’t his concern. Every minute away from Dean ratcheted his tension up another notch. The barn _seemed_ secure, it was relatively isolated and showed all the signs of being long abandoned -- but Dean was still lying there helpless. Maybe dying. Sam hadn't been sure that with magic involved, moving him was a good idea. 

“Maybe you could yell at him later.” It was the first thing Sam has said since entering the house and it caused a ripple of silence as all eyes -- most of them an odd amber tea color that screamed kinship louder than words -- turned towards him, then immediately shifted towards a stooped figure all but lost beneath a dark, enveloping shawl. 

“Go upstairs, Peter.” The elderly woman's voice was surprisingly robust, and Peter wasted no time in fleeing the room. “The rest of you can go too.”

Sam caught more hard looks. “But--" 

“Leave.” Her tone left no space for further objections and in the space of a minute she and Sam were the only two in the room. She motioned to the recently vacated couch and Sam sat stiffly on the edge. He needed her help more than he needed to argue over details.

“My brother--"

“I know what’s wrong with your brother, Mr. Winchester.” 

It was nice that one of them did. Peter had insisted only his family could help Sam, and had given terse directions to his home. Once the front door was open, Peter had gotten less than a sentence out before the room exploded into a torrent of anger in a harsh, foreign language. 

"How do you know my name?"

"Peter told me." Sam was pretty damn sure Peter hadn't done anything of the sort.

"Look, Ms--"

"Alexander."

"Ms. Alexander. Peter -- he's done something to my brother. I need your help, or _someone's_ help, undoing it."

"What was your brother doing with my grandson?" she asked calmly.

"What did your grandson do to my brother?" Sam snapped back.

"I know what you are, Mr. Winchester. We’ve weathered hunters before. If you’re here looking for trouble--"

"We're not. We were looking into the incidents at the school. There were some girls hexed, one of them almost died. A shop owner gave us Peter's name and we just wanted to talk to him. I don’t care what you and your family are up too. I just want my brother back. Please."

"Talk to him," she repeated flatly.

"Dying teenagers," Sam countered. 

The woman held his gaze, there was something in her eyes that was… indescribable. Sam's glance slid away almost without volition. 

"I'd like you to wait here for a few minutes."

"Why?"

"Because I asked nicely. Do you want help or not?"

~~~~~

Sam waited for what felt like a short eternity, perched on the edge of an antique couch forcing himself not to stand up and pace. When he calmed down enough to take it in, the room was really quite astonishing in its broad range of styles and colors. Sam didn't know a lot about furniture or decorating, but he was pretty sure it took some masterful vision to design a room where an elaborate antique sideboard and a cherry red bucket chair from the seventies both just _worked_. It was like a time capsule of shifting fashion and on a different day, Sam might have been fascinated. 

As it was, the unusual nature of the room was all but lost on him.

By the time Ms. Alexander swept back into the room Sam was ready to start climbing the walls. As old as she was, she looked like she had aged ten years.

"Come here."

"I need answers."

"You need to mind your manners. Come here. I want to show you something."

When Sam was by her side, she pointed to a fading black and white portrait of a good looking young man in uniform in a frame that lacked any hint of dust. Sam dutifully examined it, but didn't see anything significant and turned back to her impatiently after a cursory examination. She was still gazing at the picture.

"My grandson, Mitch. He died in World War II."

"I'm very sorry. What does this have to do with Dean?"

Her gaze slid back to the picture. "Everything."

~~~~~

Half an hour later, Sam was sitting on the couch again, a cup of tea in one hand and listening with growing bemusement as "Ms-Alexander-call-me-Tia" spun a bewildering story.

"Mitch was a traitor--"

"He was accused of being a traitor, it was never proven."

"Right, an _accused_ traitor that got his entire squad killed."

"Most of them," Tia agreed. "Including his best friend Jamie Johnston and several other young men that Mitch was good friends with. They said they saw him running off into the woods right before the attack, but he wouldn't have done it, Sam. He simply wouldn't have."

"And Peter was trying to go back in time to prove this? So… Dean is back in the forties fighting Nazis?" Sam stared at her. It was probably better than, say _Yeti's_ , but _still_ …

"Not quite."

"Then what!"

"He's possessing my grandson."

"What does that even mean?!"

"Don't shout at me, Sam." Tia sipped at her mug. "Our family is an old one. Very old. Before the pyramids old. And way back then the gods people worshiped had different names. Different natures. They would grant favors to the favored, if they knew how to ask."

"How do you ask for a god’s favor?"

Tia eyed him over the rim of her cup. "You're too intelligent to ask that question."

"The spell Peter was casting," Sam said flatly.

"All spells are just ways of asking, the difference is what you ask for. And from what."

"What was Peter begging favors from?" Sam asked harshly.

"Our family worshipped Time, Mr. Winchester. We sacrificed at its altars and it favored us greatly in return. Even in these lesser years, when the world has forgotten true majesty and power, we carry some of its grace."

Sam could tell that trying to get to the bottom of that would just open more rabbit holes, and he already felt like Alice. He didn't need a family history. He needed his brother. "Fine. It's your family's spell, can you just… uncast it?"

She sighed and set down the cup. "Peter's in trouble, Sam. But not as much trouble as he would have been in if your brother hadn't interrupted. That interruption probably saved Peter's life. He's an idiot," she added tartly, "but we're still fond of him. Almost no one survives what Peter cast, and to be thrown headlong into it with no warning or anchors… It's not a matter of uncasting for your brother; it's a matter of survival. Someone is going to have to follow him into the past, and I won't risk my family for his life. But I'll help you, if you're willing.

~~~~~

An hour later, Sam was lying on the bare dirt barn floor, bare feet pressed sole to sole against Dean's, and the trickle of dust and oily stench of a kerosene concoction used to scribe runes around him causing him to sneeze.

"The hardest part is going to be remembering who you are."

"I know who I am." 

Tia glared at him briefly before turning back to the powders she was mixing in a mortar. "You know who you are now, but you have no idea who you will be _then_. And Dean has even less of a clue than you will. You have until Mitch dies to bring your brother back to himself, if he falls into that darkness with my grandson, then he will be lost to then and now."

"What will happen to his body?" Sam asked quietly.

"The same thing that happens to other human vegetables. It will continue on for awhile, and then gradually cease to hold life."

Sam stared down at Dean's peaceful face, willing him to wake up before he had to go any further with this. "Was finding out the truth about Mitch so important to Peter?"

"Peter's young, and the young sometimes feel like they have to do stupid, desperate things to prove their worthiness in the world."

"I'm surprised no one had done it before."

"Both of Mitch's sister's tried. Eleanor never came back, but we managed to stop Iris. I want to know the truth of what happened as much as anyone, but I'm not willing to sacrifice my family to do it."

"I don't care about your truth; I only care about my brother."

"Family is important," Tia said simply.

"What about this guy you're sending me to, you sure this is the best one?"

"Jamie was Mitch's best friend. They knew each other as school boys and were almost inseparable. We know for sure they were in the same camp when it happened. You'll have about thirty hours to find your brother and bring him back to himself. After that… whatever happened will happen. You must remember Sam; you cannot change the past in any meaningful way. Half a century of time since is weighing on it and it will resist any actions you take that cause more than the most gentle of ripples. If it was yesterday, you would have more options."

"Then how am I supposed to warn Dean?!"

"You must find the quiet times, the spaces between that will hold no bearing on subsequent events and try and reach him then. Jarring people loose is not so hard, it's staying suspended that proves the challenge."

"You speak like a woman with a lot of experience."

"It's rude to ask a lady her age," Tia said primly.

"That's why I'm not asking how Mitch and Peter can both be your grandsons," Sam said pointedly.

"Wise child. Do you remember what I said about anchors and talismans?"

"My tattoo."

"It holds power," she agreed. "Personal and magical. Hold it firmly in your mind, what it should look like, where it should be."

"I've been doing that," Sam said irritably.

She ignored him, and set down her mortar to crouch by Dean's side and tug his necklace over his head. She tossed it to Sam. "That too, has power, and personal meaning. It burns with it. It will be of no use to your brother, but it might give you strength."

Sam pulled it over his head and looked at her questioningly.

“Wrap your hand around it.” Sam grabbed hold of the pendent and closed his eyes, clinging to his brother’s necklace like a security blanket that could save them from the mistakes of the past few hours.

“No, tighter. Tight until it cuts into your skin.” 

Sam’s eyes flew back open. Tia nodded towards his hand. “It needs to hurt; it needs to be bathed in your blood. It has power, but that power needs to be tied to you deeper than flesh if it’s to help at all.”

“Exactly how is this going to help me again?” Sam asked doubtfully, relaxing back onto the dirt when Tia turned back to the mortar and pestle she was grinding her powders in.

“It might not,” she admitted easily, “or maybe it will be the thread that keeps you tied to yourself. Just like all the others protections I’m trying to give you. Some may work, none may work, or maybe it will just be the one we tossed in at the last minute.”

Sam took the hint and tightened his fist around the pendent until the horns on the tiny mask bit deeply into his palm. Tia’s low chant was a distant background as he grits his teeth and forced the points even deeper. It seemed to bite almost eagerly into his skin and Sam didn’t know if the odd heat was from the pain, or the pendent itself. It had been a gift to his dad from Bobby, what seemed like lifetimes ago, and when their dad had seen it around Dean’s neck, the last-minute theft had been barely worth more than a grunt of acknowledgement.

Neither of them had ever gotten around to asking what the damn thing was supposed to do in the first place, but Sam didn’t see any possibility that was worse than the current predicament.

“Now what?”

“Now you be quiet and close your eyes. I want you to concentrate. Think of your tattoo, and the feel of that amulet in your hand. Think of the rough dirt under your back, and your brother’s skin against your own. Think of everything it means to be Sam Winchester. Good things, bad things, powerful things. Things that are uniquely you.”

The rising tide of _something_ was making his skin prickle and his stomach felt like the floor was falling out beneath him. He struggled to speak. “And Dean? I should focus on Dean, right?”

Somewhere above him Tia huffed a deep breath out and fine dust settled over his skin, every speck with the weight of anvils. He gasped, resisting the urge to struggle even while the air felt crushed from his lungs. “It’s not Dean you should be so concerned about losing. If you can keep yourself, you will find your brother.”

Sam swallowed. He thought about Jessica, and cold Christmas’s in threadbare hotels. The look on his dad’s face when he left for Stanford. The smell of the hospital where he died. Sam struggled to find something that defined himself that wasn’t soaked in pain. He thought about Dean, but forcing his mind past the current crisis was almost impossible. 

Sam made the effort; hand tightening impossibly further until the wooden planks overhead and the faint sweetness of straw on the air caused another memory to well. Being nine years old and left with Dean on a friend’s farm. Pounding heat of hot, late summer sun and splinters from the weathered fence rail they'd hung on, bored. The shadow of the crop duster, and the friendly neighbor who indulged the fascination of a stranger’s children and let them crawl all over the plane. Even taking them up once at the end of a long day. Being able to _be_ children for a few days out of a lifetime of adult responsibilities. Sam steeled himself with the memory of his brother’s carefree laughter. Dean had wanted to be a pilot after that summer. For awhile. 

Sometimes fate was a bitch.

The sharp crack of a struck match and he couldn’t stop his eyes from flying open just in time to see Tia drop the spark of fire to the runed-circle he was lying in. Her eyes were expressionless as she regarded him. “Goodbye, Sam.” 

The rush of catching fire seemed to suddenly eat up his entire field of vision, stars spun in the black space overhead. Dean’s feet burned against his soles and voices streamed through his mind like threads he couldn’t quite catch, wrapping around his name until they tore it to shreds. It was terribly important that he remember something, so terribly important… He wracked his panicking mind for the memory, fighting a losing battle against the drowning tide of darkness until everything was swallowed up by blue… the empty endless blue of the pristine autumn sky.

He couldn’t recall ever noticing a sky so blue back home in Wyoming and wondered if there was something about France that made the air so clear, or if it was just still being alive over hostile territory in the middle of a war that had already killed half the guys he’d trained with.

Or maybe it was being in love. He killed that thought before it could go any further. Static on the radio snapped his wandering thoughts back to the present. Through the racket he could make out the tail end of a bad joke. Jamie frowned and adjusted the tuner. His current assignment was a restless mix of pilots from different areas and different experiences – and not all of them were good at following protocol when the day was so nice and the enemy seemed so distant. He’d survived his own hard lessons, and could only hope that educating the newcomers didn’t get anyone killed. 

Death was never that far away in a war.

They wouldn’t be able to irritate him much longer. The runway, cleared for the moment of its disguising tangle of camouflage, spilled out ahead of him. A brief contact with operations and he glided the Mustang smoothly down, the plane as responsive to his desire as others were… stubborn. A specific image started to form but Jamie squashed it ruthlessly. He was sure plenty of people would be lining up on the ground to ruin his perfect day, no reason to get the ball rolling himself.

Touchdown on the dirt runway jostled him from the easy glide of flight, and he was glad to be able to shut her down under the overhang of ancient trees. A lot of effort had gone into trying to make the temporary airfield look like a natural forest clearing and some ramshackle huts. So far the illusion was holding, but no one imagined it would hold forever. The heap of tarps and branches that would cover his sweet girl lay a few feet away, but there was maintenance to be done first. And then maybe some clean clothes. He loved flying, but that trip down the dirt runway always left him feeling bathed in sand. 

“Aren’t you ever going to name that plane, Johnston?”

Jamie grinned and jumped down. “Not in this lifetime, Richards. I hear it’s bad luck.”

“Better bad luck than bad manners. You keep calling her by her numbers and she might take a dislike to you one of these days.”

Jamie gave the plane an affectionate pat and raked his greeter with a glance. “I see they sent you back in one piece. Did you bring what I asked you for?”

Richards snorted, and then his lowered voice took on a surprisingly serious tone. “Yeah, I got your stuff. Stashed it under your pillow. It’s not the only thing I brought back, though.”

“Trouble?” 

“Not yet, but--" Richards hesitated. “Some French guy and his aide, or something. They’re here to get the Major up to speed and maybe do some work in the area. I don’t know.”

Jamie shrugged. “People come and go. What’s the problem?”

“There isn’t a problem. Yet. But I don’t think your buddy likes him.”

“The plane? She doesn’t mind meeting new people.”

“I’m talking about--"

“I know who you’re talking about,” Jamie cut in impatiently. He knew. Oh, how he knew, and the surge of affection and irritation did nothing to help his growing headache. “He doesn’t like strangers.”

“You’ve got to talk to him. The new guy’s been in camp less than an hour and I think even the damn squirrels know exactly how he feels already. If the Major has to step in--"

“I’ll take care of it.”

“Jamie--"

“I said I’d handle it, Richards. It won’t be a problem.”

Richards nodded, shoulders visibly relaxing. “Better you than me. Want me to put your nameless lady to bed?”

“You mean do your job?” Jamie raised an eyebrow. He usually hung around to do the maintenance himself, or at least help out. But the lure of a quick clean up was attractive, and he apparently had other things to see too as well. He nodded. “I’ll swing back by later.”

Richards rolled his eyes and made a good natured gesture in Jamie’s direction that he would never have risked if anyone else had been close enough to catch it. Being from the same part of the same state made a man almost a brother on the killing fields of a foreign country. Almost, but there were some things even closer. And vastly more… complicated. 

With an inwards sigh, Jamie walked past his shared tent and made his way into the heart of camp. The flyover had been routine, debriefing would only take a few minutes. And maybe he could meet the new guy and see what it was about him that had set a certain someone’s teeth on edge.

~~~~~

There was nothing about Captain Mathieu Durand or his aide, Sergeant Julien Blanc, which struck Jamie as odd. They seemed tired and focused on the business at hand, but spoke good English and had been perfectly polite when Major Davis introduced them. It was obvious Richards hadn't been exaggerating the situation though; Davis had dropped more than one veiled remark in Jamie's direction that indicated there had better not be any international friction while the visitors were in camp. Jamie intended to deliver the message clearly, but its intended recipient had been notably absent since Jamie touched ground barely an hour before. So instead he went to get cleaned up before someone found him something else to do.

The inside of the tent was warmer than the blustery weather outside, an entire day worth of heat baking on canvas kept the rough accommodations comfortable long into the night. In the middle of the afternoon it was almost _too_ warm, but not for a quick wash. Jamie tossed his jacket and gear onto his cot and made quick work of the buttons on his uniform shirt. It wasn't in bad shape for cleanliness and a quick shake rid it of the worst of the grit. The t-shirt was another matter; he'd wash it in the river with the rest of his clothes when he bathed later, but for now it was definitely going in the dirty pile. 

With a damp cloth, he wiped at his skin to remove the worst of the grit, paying no special attention to the myriad of half healed scratches and bruises he'd accumulated helping to cut the airfield out of the forest in the first place. They weren't of any significance and would heal fine on their own. Of more significance was the six inch long scar just above the belt on his left side, still raw enough that the little holes that had held stitches still clearly lined the puckered gash. A souvenir of the crash landing that had destroyed his last plane. Jamie wasn't complaining though, he'd walked away and safe into the hands of allies. Most pilots who went down couldn't say the same. 

He wracked his brain for the mess schedule while cleaning up. Was it meatloaf or spaghetti on Tuesdays? 

Left wrist, up his arm. 

Probably meatloaf, it seemed like spaghetti was a Wednesday thing.

Over his bicep where a pulled muscle reminded him that he should really be favoring that arm for awhile. Jamie glanced down to see if there was any bruising there… and Sam reeled back. Or didn't, because Jamie continued his cursory inspection and musing over the meal plan while Sam fought down panic and the sense of being trapped that came from inhabiting a body he couldn't control. He could _feel_ the washcloth in his hand and the warm air pressing against his skin. He could feel the blink of his eyes and the movement as Jamie went to grab a clean shirt from his gear, but it was completely disconnected from Sam's own will. 

Sam floundered, was it meatloaf? Panic surged again and he struggled, trying to find something to hold himself away from Jamie, to keep himself _Sam_ and not drown in the other's identity. He remembered what Tia had said about talismans and wished he had taken her more seriously. She had spoken of losing one's identity and not even knowing it was lost, Sam had envisioned something like daydreaming and drifting away, he'd figured his focus on rescuing Dean would keep him safe from that. 

It didn't, not even close. He had a complete and total understanding of why the spell killed so many. Even now, with adrenaline singing through nerves he no longer had, the riptide pull of Jamie's perspective was smothering. Sam abandoned his lingering hope that Dean would be aware and reachable. _He_ had gone in fully warned, and armed, and charmed -- and if Jamie hadn't accidentally invoked the specter of Sam's missing tattoo and jarred him free with the discrepancy, he would still be idly wondering about dinner. He couldn't worry about Dean; it was everything he could do to worry about himself.

~~~~~

The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur for Sam. What should have been an incredibly interesting experience in immersion history was instead like a bizarre half-dream. He was Jamie, but he was still _Sam_ , and he could barely focus on anything else but maintaining that wavering line of identity. He saw what Jamie saw, moved how Jamie directed, but it still _felt_ like it was his own body. The only good thing was that focusing so hard on maintaining the divide between them helped him keep Jamie's thoughts at bay. Harder to hold off his emotions, but at least the stream of consciousness was no longer twisted so seamlessly with his own. 

Things seemed to slowly get easier. Jamie helped unpack a jeep, attended a meeting involving movement of the front, ate a dinner that turned out to be neither spaghetti nor meatloaf but was instead some kind of soup-based casserole, and avoided at least two different invitations for cards.

He had a headache. Sam sympathized, and felt marginally guilty. Tia had insisted that the host wouldn't even notice the effect, but Sam had his doubts. He didn't know how he could be so thoroughly wrapped up with Jamie and Jamie himself feel nothing at all, even if only some distant subconscious echo. Instead of socializing, all Jamie wanted to do was sleep.

He ducked into his tent and sat on his cot, kicking his boots off just as someone new ducked under the canvas flap. Jamie looked up and Sam caught his nonexistent breath, the newcomer was both a complete stranger and the most familiar man Sam had ever seen. The dark curls and amber eyes belonged to a stranger, but there was just such an incredibly flavor of _Dean_ to him… He knew his brother, just as Tia had promised. Relief shot through Sam, so overwhelming that for a few seconds there was no struggle at all to hold himself apart from his host.  
The next minute reality reasserted itself. He'd found Dean, but imprisoned at Jamie's will Sam had no idea how he was going to help Dean find himself. 

The moment stretched out and Sam was buffeted by waves of powerful emotions from his host as Jamie contemplated Tia's grandson, Mitch, in silence. Irritation, resignation, love… The last one was the strongest, and it blended with Sam's own feelings for his brother. Except -- not exactly. It was love, but not the deep-seated affection for a sibling or a friend; instead it was more-- oh. _Oh_. And suddenly all of Jamie's irritation and the things he refused to dwell on and his frustration made sense. 

"Don't even think about it," Jamie said flatly. Mitch tossed his jacket down on the foot of his own cot and grinned knowingly. Sam didn't blame him, _Jamie_ was definitely thinking about it. And about why it was a terrible idea. Which Sam happened to agree with. Theirs weren't the only two cots in the tent, and the other two owners could walk in at any time. 

"What's your problem with Durand?"

Mitch's good humor visibly evaporated and Sam couldn't help relief. It was Jamie's life and whatever he wanted to do Sam didn't exactly have a say in, but having sex with a man who felt like his brother was an experience Sam preferred to avoid. There was always the added fun chance that Dean was awake behind Mitch's eyes, but as much as Sam was having to struggle to keep himself afloat he seriously doubted it.

"I don't like him," Mitch said flatly. He knelt by his trunk and jerked the lid up, rummaging through it instead of meeting Jamie's eyes. 

"I don't care if you don't like him; I care if the entire camp knows you don't like him!" 

"Who died and made you my keeper?"

Jamie's smile was all edges; Sam could feel the strain of it. "Davis did, when he agreed not to have us both dishonorably discharged, or thrown in the fucking brig. You remember that, right Mitch? You, me, the back staircase of a London pub? Being tripped over by a senior officer with your tongue halfway down my throat? _Ringing any bells_? You have a reputation, and we _promised_ you wouldn't cause him any problems if he didn't turn us in."

" _You_ promised. And the guy's a Nazi."

Jamie's smoldering temper ignited and he had to struggle to keep his voice low. "You never fucking think! I don't care if he's Hitler in disguise, as far as this command is concerned he's a well regarding, high ranking foreign officer and the only thing you had better say around him is 'Yes, Sir,' or 'No, Sir'. Is this sinking into your skull at all? When we get back to Kansas you can be as much of a jackass as you want, but while we're _here_ , you'd better shape up."

Mitch dropped the trunk lid and looked up with a frown. "Why are we going to Kansas?"

"What?"

"You said 'when we get back to Kansas.' I've never been there in the first place. Is it nice?"

Jamie blinked; Sam felt a surge of elation. It had felt like throwing himself into a mental brick wall, but with Jamie's temper flaring he had managed to shove in a word of his own. Not a lot, but it might not take much to shock Dean back to awareness. It was _something_.

"How the hell would I know what Kansas is like?"

"Then why are you planning a trip?"

"We're not talking about fucking _Kansas_. We're talking about you, and me, and your stupid behavior, and--"

"What we're doing after the war."

Jamie scowled. "No, we aren't."

"You brought it up."

"I'm tired, Mitch. I'm just -- I can't do _this_ , and my job, _and_ have to be your keeper all at the same time. We've got enough stress without that too. It's not fair."

"I'll behave."

"Liar."

Mitch grinned again, Sam/Jamie could still see the shadow of anger in his eyes, but he was making an effort.

"Who knows? We might all die tomorrow; we haven't got enough time together to waste it fighting with each other. How about I just avoid him, and then there won't be any problems."

"And keep your mouth shut?"

"And keep my mouth shut," Mitch agreed. Sam could feel Jamie's doubts, but he didn't want to fight about it either and let the matter drop.

"Any chance I could scoot my cot a few feet your way?"

Jamie peeled off his socks and rolled his eyes. "Only if you want me to change tents and go sleep with Marcus, Phillips and Albertson."

"Marcus doesn't like you like I do."

"Yes. Exactly. It would be better for all of us. Phillips and Albertson don't like me that way either, by the way."

"They have no taste. Were you this boring back home and I just didn't notice?"

Jamie threw his rolled up socks at Mitch and kicked his pants off, leaving him in his boxers and undershirt. Mitch was completely still on his own cot, riveted by the inadvertent show. Jamie enjoyed the heat of his gaze, but it wasn't going any further. One miserable episode of discovery was enough for a lifetime. When they got home to Wyoming they could buy a house way off the beaten path and do whatever they wanted together in a place where no one would be around to care.

That place was not the middle of a war zone.

"Good night," Jamie said firmly, flopping down on his cot, dragging a scratchy green blanket up to his chin and closing his eyes.

After a couple of minutes, Mitch snorted and Jamie listened to him move around while he made his own preparations for bed. The soft creak of his cot as he settled in, and then the light through his eyelids dimmed as Mitch turned off the lamp.

"What are we doing, you know, _after_?"

Jamie groaned. "Go to sleep."

"It's too early for sleep."

"Then what the hell did you come in here for?"

"I saw you head in here, and Albright said you were going to bed…"

"You're insane."

Mitch didn't reply, but after a few minutes Jamie heard the rustling of a candy wrapper and the sound of chewing. 

"What are you eating?"

"Tootsie rolls. Someone hid them under my pillow."

Jamie sat up and turned the lamp back on. "Those are mine! Richards put them on the wrong bed."

"And they're delicious." Mitch waved half the eaten package at him. "I've got two more to eat when I get peckish."

"Give them back."

"Tell me what you want to do after."

Jamie considered the merits of tackling Mitch and getting his candy back that way, but decided that was probably the underlying plan in the first place. He sank back onto his cot and folded his arms under his head, glaring. Mitch reached out and helpfully turned off the lamp. The chewing sound resumed.

"You're a bastard."

Two objects hit Jamie in the chest unexpectedly. He stuffed them under his mattress. "Thanks."

"Hold your hand out." Jamie did and, after a moment, Mitch's hand fumbled into it in the dark. He pressed half the candy bar into Jamie's hand. "I didn't know they were yours."

"You thought the Tootsie Roll fairy visited you because you were good?"

"I thought maybe I had a secret admirer."

Jamie laughed. "In this group that'd be more scary than flattering."

"I don't care as long as they give me presents."

"I give you presents."

"You gave me dirty socks," Mitch said in deeply hurt tones.

"I also shot two Germans off your tail last week!"

"That's part of your job description."

"I saved your life and you ate my candy, I'm not sure I see what's in this for me."

"I wanted to show you earlier, but--"

"Shut-up. And I want those socks back."

An easy quiet filled the tent. In the distance they could hear the sounds of their compatriots talking and gaming or just sharing stories. There was an occasional bright burst of laughter, but even that was somewhat muted. Everyone knew what kind of danger they lived in. The forest was dark, and dense. Aerial patrols couldn't penetrate the canopy with enough certainty to know they were safe and undiscovered, and they didn't have the manpower to send out people on foot. They kept their heads down, did their job, and made a point not to be followed home. 

Sam knew it was futile. Within twenty-four hours the camp, and almost everyone in it, would be destroyed. 

Seeing Mitch from Jamie's perspective, he couldn't believe Tia's grandson was the traitor. It didn't matter as anything but a point of interest anyway; there was nothing Sam could do to save either of them. They had been dead decades before he was even born, and the weight of time itself would prevent any action from him that would change that destiny. 

He could only try and save his brother, and himself.

"When I was little, I used to tell my mom I would be rich one day and travel the world. London, Paris, Rome…" Jamie said quietly.

"Well, London's already about done for and the others might need some time to rebuild after we finish kicking them flat. I'd wait awhile." 

Jamie smiled in the darkness. "I think I've done enough world traveling. I just want to go home. Do you think it's always like this?"

"War?"

"Growing up. The dreams of our childhood gutted by time and reality."

"I don't think a war is something most kids have to plan around."

"You don’t? Our dad's fought in the first World War, and in our grandfather's time the Civil War ripped our country apart. Before then? The War of 1812 I think, the Revolution, French and Indian, Spanish Succession…"

"Anyone ever tell you that you read too much?"

"No."

"Well you do. And it's morbid. If you have to read, try comic books."

"Weren't you the one checking the Russian classics out of the base library before the last deployment?"

"I needed a doorstop."

"And you had to examine each page to know if it was suitable?"

"So your big plan is just to go home?"

"Yeah, not _home_ home, but someplace close enough to visit."

"But not close enough for your folks to find out you're shacking up with a guy."

Jamie was silent.

"Jamie?"

"It's not like you want your folks to find out either."

"You, uh, haven't really met my folks. They're a little… unconventional"

"That would have to be _really_ unconventional."

"Yeah. We could probably stay with them until we decide where we want to live."

"Really?" Sam remembered the eclectic decorations and the fading portrait in its carefully polished frame. Grief in tea-colored eyes for a man more than forty years dead. Sam thought Mitch was probably right about how his family would have greeted Jamie if they had lived to go home. 

"Probably. And my uncle has a candy store, so no shortage of Tootsie Rolls there."

"I might get fat."

"Better than bony."

"I'm going to remember you said that later."

"You can tattoo it on my chest. As long as you do it in Wyoming."

"Yeah," Jamie sighed. "Back home. What do you want to do after?"

"I like your plan. But maybe after some time we could head east for awhile?"

"East like… Asia?"

"I was thinking more east like the Mississippi. Maybe canoe it from the headwaters to the Gulf. Hang out in New Orleans for awhile. I've got some family there too." Considering his current situation, and New Orlean’s reputation as a bastion for questionable magic, Sam had no doubt it was lousy with Mitch's relatives.

"Can you do that?"

"Sure? Who's going to stop us? It's a huge river. We can make the canoe. Then we just need a tent, some gear, a couple of paddles -- interested?"

"I'll think about it." He was on the edge of sleep; Sam could almost see the muddy waters of the Mississippi waiting for Jamie in his dreams. He pushed gently; hoping exhaustion was as unguarded as fury. 

"Maybe we could go flying." Sam was thrilled at his success. Maybe this would be enough to pull Dean out of Mitch's consciousness.

"Flying?"

Jamie was waking back up, confused. Sam pushed as hard as he could. "Like when we were kids, at the farm. The red plane…"

"Jamie?" Sam could hear Mitch sit up on his cot. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Jamie said, bewildered. "Yeah, I'm… fine."

"What the hell are you going on about?"

"I… don't know. I was half asleep. Must have been some dream I had."

"You had a dream about us flying in a red plane on a farm? I don't think I've ever even _been_ on a farm."

"I don't know, Mitch. I'm tired."

"Get some sleep. You don't know who I'll need you to shoot off my ass tomorrow."

Jamie groaned and pressed his face into the pillow. Sleep followed quickly.

In the darkness, Sam lay still, it was harder now than it had been earlier to stay himself. Jamie was asleep, but his dreaming mind was even more ensnaring than his waking one had been. No longer the relatively orderly patterns, now it was a kaleidoscope of images and memories that flickered randomly and shifted with no reason. Sam found himself sliding away from his precarious hold. Jamie's eyes were closed, Sam lacked even visual cues to help cling to his rock in the storm of Jamie's dreams. He himself felt no need for sleep, and was glad. If sleep came, Sam doubted he would ever wake from it. Another rush grabbed at him and in Sam's panic -- Jamie's eyes flew open.

Adjusted for the dark and with just a bit of light shining through the fabric from the neighboring tent -- a light that would no doubt be out soon, lights visible from the air would be a death sentence for the camp -- Sam had no trouble picking out the roof. When he managed to turn Jamie's head after long, torturous minutes, he found Mitch sound asleep on the neighboring cot. Mitch, and… maybe Dean. 

It took Sam the better part of an hour to roll off the cot and land on his/Jamie's knees on the floor. It seemed easier the longer he tried, but still achingly slow, and Jamie's would stir at odd times, almost surfacing awake more than once. When that happened, Sam froze. He knew what would happen if Jamie managed to wake up, and then there would be no hope at all.

Finally, _finally_ , Sam knelt by Mitch's cot.

"Dean," he said hoarsely, hoping Mitch was a deep sleeper. "Dean," he tried again after several minutes passed. Frustrated and terrified, Sam laid his right hand on Mitch's chest. 

" _Dean_."

His palm felt hot, achy where it rested over Mitch's beating heart. It didn't feel like Jamie's palm. For that moment, Sam felt like he was in his own flesh, in his own time. He remembered the pendant just as Mitch's eyes flew open.

"Sam."

Sam sagged in relief. "Don't move; don't do anything that might wake him up. I don't know how much time we have."

Mitch's eyes, dark in the shadowy tent, were wild. "What the hell--"

"Shut-up and listen, your life depends on it."

As quickly, and in as few words as he could, Sam related what had happened. When he was done the panic was gone from Mitch's eyes, replaced with a grim kind of determination Sam knew well.

"You shouldn't have done this, Sam."

"Saved your life?"

"It isn't saved yet, this was a stupid thing to do. You could die! What were--"

"I'll let you yell at me all you want," Sam cut him off in a fierce whisper," if you can look me in the eye and tell me you wouldn't have done the same. I mean it, Dean. Say it or shut-up."

Dean looked away. "So… tomorrow, huh?"

"Yeah. They said… I mean, history records Mitch as the traitor."

"He isn't," Dean said flatly.

"Are you sure?"

"You said Jamie died too?"

"Yeah."

"It's not Mitch. He wouldn't do anything that would hurt Jamie. Also, I know what he's been thinking about, and if he was setting up some big ambush to get his whole group killed I'd know it. He doesn't like a few of the guys, but he doesn't want anyone dead. He's here defending his country, Sam. He's not the one."

"I told his grandmother I'd try and find out."

Mitch/Dean blinked. "His _grandmother_ is still alive?"

"It's an unusual family."

"I bet." Dean drew a deep breath. "So then… we just wait."

"Yeah, pretty much."

"And how am I supposed to hang on until then?"

"What brought you back this time?"

"The plane."

"On the farm?"

"Yeah." The corners of Mitch's mouth curved up. "I'd almost freaking forgotten that week. Mitch was so confused, and it was so _vivid_ to me… that's when I was really, you know, _separate_. I don't know if I can stay that way, Sam."

"You have to," Sam said fiercely. He had charms, and spells, and _knowledge_ , and he could barely hold himself away from Jamie. Dean had nothing but stubbornness and will. But Sam wasn't willing to surrender, and he knew Dean wouldn't either. He tried Tia's advice.

"You have to focus on things that define you, things that make you _you_."

"Like the plane."

"Like the plane," Sam agreed. "Anything that will help your sense of identity."

"That's what's working for you?"

Sam lied easily. "Yeah, Dean. If I can do it, you don't have an excuse."

"You always were the girl."

Sam was just happy to see Dean trying to be funny, even if his sense of humor sucked.

Dean/Mitch's eyes widened. "I think… I think Mitch is waking up." Sam hated the hint of panic in his brother's voice. 

"Just hang on, Dean. It's less than a day. Just hang on." And then Dean was gone and it was Mitch staring up at him wide eyed in the dark tent.

Mitch, who needed only a heartbeat to come up with a reason why Jamie would be kneeling beside his cot in the middle of the night. Sam opened his mouth, to say -- he wasn't sure what, but then talking was a moot point because Mitch wrapped his arms around him and pulled him onto the bed. That was enough to wake Jamie up, who still thought he was dreaming, and melted into the kiss with enthusiasm. 

A low whistle and quiet conversation just outside the tent jolted him from his sleepy delusion and he gasped and kneed Mitch hard enough to make him curl into a ball of pain. Jamie fell off the edge of the cot and scrambled back to his own just in time to make a convincing play at normality when one of their roommates, Carter, walked in. Carter turned the lamp up and started undressing for bed while Mitch glared daggers at Jamie from a few feet away. Jamie was just confused. After a few minutes, Carter swore softly to himself and ducked back out.

"What the hell was that?" Mitch demanded.

"I was going to ask you the same thing," Jamie hissed back.

"You came to me," Mitch snapped. "You pawed me awake, and practically ripped off my clothes!"

"I was asleep!"

"You molest people in your sleep?"

Jamie just stared at him, baffled. Mitch took in his genuine confusion and frowned. "Are you sure you're feeling okay lately? You've been a little… odd, today."

"I don't know," Jamie mumbled. "I feel fine; I don't know what the hell is going on."

"You'll go get checked out in the morning? Maybe you're just tired. Or have been hit in the head one too many times."

"I told you, I feel--"

"You can take yourself in, or I can go to the Major," Mitch said flatly.

"I'm on mess in the morning, you going to cover my shift if I let you boss me around?"

"As long as you promise to make it up to me."

"I told you, I'm not--"

"After. In Wyoming."

"It's a plan."

"What's a plan?" Carter asked, ducking back in.

"Killing you, burying your body in the woods, and selling your stuff for smokes and loose women," Mitch said.

Carter flipped him the bird. "They're the only kind of women who'll have you."

"And that's only if they're desperate," Jamie added, catching Mitch's eye with a grin.

"You ladies are just jealous. Get some sleep, and tomorrow I'll try not to embarrass you too badly at drill."

~~~~~

Sam spent the long hours of the night clinging to himself in the nonsensical whirlwind of Jamie's dreams, but when morning came he still had his identity. He could only hope Dean had fared as well, but there was no way to check. Mitch caught Jamie's eye while they were dressing. 

"Remember what you promised."

"Yeah. See you at lunch?"

"That's my mess shift. Catch up this afternoon." Jamie nodded in agreement and went to get checked out.

The medic couldn't find anything wrong with him, and by midmorning Jamie was back in the air on patrol. The sky was the same perfect blue; adrift in its azure clarity Jamie could feel his calm returning. There was nothing wrong with him, Mitch had promised to behave, and things at camp seemed stable for the time being. Things were as right as they could be. 

Jamie managed to keep his peaceful mood through landing, his brief report, and a late lunch -- then was rocked off his feet again when a furious Mitch hauled him unexpectedly into the weapons shed. Mitch's face was pinched with anger and he was almost vibrating with tension.

"What the hell is your problem?" Jamie hissed as he wrenched himself free.

"That fucking spy," Mitch spat. "He is a spy, and I'm going to prove it!" 

"Captain Durand?" 

"No! The Major's favorite fucking squirrel. Of _course_ Durand."

"We talked about this, you can't--"

"I have too." There was no hint of give in Mitch's voice. "You can help, or you can keep your mouth shut."

"Calm down and think for a minute, why would--"

"I don't know why! I just… things were fine. Then he gets to camp and suddenly it's like I see shadows everywhere. I've got a _feeling_ and that feeling is him. He's going to get us all killed if we don't expose him."

Mitch's feelings had saved both their lives, and the entire squad, more than once. It was insane, and stupid, but Jamie had survived too many disasters at Mitch's side in the last year to doubt him now just because it seemed completely insane. Sam had a different take on the matter, having met Mitch's family, and with his own personal burdens to bear; he had no trouble believing that Mitch had a supernatural sense for danger and wrongness. 

Jamie drew a deep breath and nodded. If he cooperated, maybe they could get through this without a court-martial. Mitch had good instincts, but he didn't always have good sense. "What do you need me to do?"

~~~~~

"This is stupid," Jamie hissed. Sam didn't know about stupid, but it was certainly insanely reckless. It reminded him of home.

"What's stupid is wasting time arguing. Just keep watch and tell me if anyone is coming."

Jamie peeked out from the canvas flap. As guests, Captain Durand and Sergeant Blanc had been given their own tent to use. A tent Mitch was currently riffling looking for some hint of evidence that his instinct was right. Going to the Major was out of the question. Mitch had made no bones about disliking Durand the instant he'd laid eyes on the newcomers, any complaint coming from him based on a "feeling" would be worse than laughed at. And as his best friend, Jamie wasn't any more credible. They needed proof of _some_ kind. Any kind.

"Well?" Jamie asked impatiently.

"Nothing." Mitch swore in frustration. Jamie heard the quiet click of a folding blade and glanced back just in time to see Mitch take hold of Durand's pillow, knife in one hand. 

"You have got to be kidding," Jamie said flatly.

"You've got a better idea?" Mitch demanded. 

"You aren't going to gut the guy's pillow! Subtle. Remember subtle? Like we weren't even here?"

Mitch scowled and shoved the trunk link closed. It slammed with an oddly hollow thunk and they both stared at it, then at each other. They'd slammed enough footlockers in their military careers to know when one sounded off.

"Keep watch," Mitch ordered again, kneeling back in front of the trunk. After a moment he swore in an entirely new tone and Jamie turned to see Mitch scanning a folded slip of paper, the unusual cloth lining of the trunk lid was pulled down and several other folded papers lay on the floor in front of him.

"What are they?" Jamie asked quietly.

"German ciphers," Mitch said grimly.

"Are you sure?"

"They aren't fucking love letters, Jamie. And… yeah, I'm sure. I didn't start off as a pilot, remember? I did my time in the sandbox first."

"I still don't know why you changed your track."

"You don't?" Mitch gave him a crooked smile. "You aren't thinking very hard."

"Maybe you like to fly."

"Maybe I just like you."

"That's a stupid reas--" Jamie started to retort, but was cut off by a soft gasp from behind him. He spun just as Mitch gave him a withering look and stood up.

Julien Blanc stood behind them; face white and eyes riveted to the papers in Mitch's hands. He reached out and Mitch handed him one of the papers.

Julien looked at it in silence for a moment. "I knew it, I think. But I didn't want to believe it. It explains so much…"

"We don't have time for this," Mitch said impatiently. "You have to come with us to meet with Major Davis. We're in a bad spot here and we can't afford to let Durand get any information out."

"Yes. Yes, of course. But… Durand is already gone."

"Gone?" Jamie asked sharply. "Gone where?"

"Into the woods, the forest. Just a few minutes ago. He was alone; I thought… it is beautiful countryside. I thought he just needed some space." Julien was still staring at the paper, seemingly in shock. 

Jamie and Mitch traded frustrated looks. 

"Take Sergeant Blanc and find Davis," Mitch snapped. "Tell him everything."

"Where are you going?" Jamie demanded. 

"I'm going after Durand. The Germans could have half a battalion parked practically under our freaking noses in this forest and we can't risk him running to them."

Jamie grabbed his arm, "I'm coming with you! Blanc can tell Davis himself."

Mitch shook his head, mouth set in grim lines. "I don't know him, I trust you. There's no time for this Jamie. I--" he hesitated and glanced at Blanc.

"Yeah. Go." Mitch was through the canvas door and heading for the woods in seconds. Sunset was staining the sky crimson and alarm bells were ringing in Sam's head. Something was wrong, something was wrong…

"Okay," Jamie gathered himself and bent to grab the papers off the floor. "The Major is probably up the hill doing--" his words broke off with a gasp as white hot pain touched off an explosion in his back. He sucked in air to scream but a powerful hand locked over his mouth and pulled him back. More blows, more starbursts of pain, and then the cool press of the canvas floor. The pain was receding, chased back by a rising tide of darkness. Something fell to the floor by his face and Sam recognized a boot knife. Jamie was too far gone to recognize anything. His body wouldn't respond to either of them anymore, and the color was draining out of the world, like the blood from his body. Blanc gathered up his papers and stepped over Jamie on his way out the door. 

The last thing Sam heard with his fading senses was the booming explosion of the oncoming attack.

In the space between heartbeats, Sam's eyes flew open again, but this time it was his eyes, in his own body. He sat up in a room he didn't recognize and looked around wildly. The half moon was burning through the clear glass of an antique window and the blanket Sam had kicked off in his haste had been keeping a distinct chill at bay. He didn't recognize the pajamas he was dressed in, but the soft, worn cotton was a distant concern to what had happened to Dean.

He wasn't hard to find, dressed in his own set of pajamas and unconscious on the other side of the room. Sam shook him hard, "Dean!"

"Stop that."

Sam spun, Tia stood in the doorway behind him, looking like a shadowy harbinger of death in the yellow backlight shining from the hallway.

"He'll wake up… or he won't. You shaking him won't change anything at all."

"I found him! He was aware, he was _Dean_. I told him what you said, about keeping his focus. You said Mitch died, _Jamie_ died. He should be back!"

Tia pointed imperiously at the bed Sam had risen from. He gave her a stubborn look of refusal and backed up against the wall instead, arms crossed and heart pounding in fear.

"You can't do anything but wait, Sam," she said gently.

"I can--" whatever Sam was going to insist was in his capabilities was lost when Dean started coughing.

Sam exhaled heavily in relief. 

"I'll be downstairs with the family," Tia said quietly, closing the door behind her and leaving them alone. Dean sat up awkwardly, coughing and rubbing at his throat as he fended off Sam's attempts to help.

"Jesus, Sammy," he finally croaked out, "give a guy some space."

"What's wrong with you?" Sam demanded.

"Bayonet to the throat," Dean mumbled. "It wasn't Durand, and there wasn't any time. The Germans were already there.” 

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Me too. Mitch was an okay guy."

"So was Jamie."

"Yeah," Dean sighed, rubbing at his eyes. "So… what the hell happened with that kid?"

"Peter?" Sam sank down to sit on the floor by the wall. "He said it was an accident."

"It was, as much as casting a huge spell in a barn can be an accident. I grabbed him to interrupt the casting, he pushed me, I tripped… landing was a bitch."

Sam snorted. 

"Did you find out about the hex?"

"It wasn't Peter."

"Okay."

"You want to talk about it?" Sam ventured hesitantly. Dean would rather be buried in spiders than talk about his feelings, but he might feel more introspective about an inadvertent trip to the past--"

"No."

Or not.

"Mitch's family is downstairs, Dean. They're going to have questions about Mitch and what happened."

"Yeah."

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Sam was just trying to find some way to handle with the events of… just the last two days. It felt like an entire lifetime -- specifically someone else's. He wondered how Dean was dealing with it and glanced up just in time to see Dean frown. 

"You wouldn't happen to know what happened to my clothes, would you?"

"No," Sam pulled Dean's pendant over his own head and held it out to his brother, "but this is yours."

Dean slid the pendent back on and Sam hesitated, then asked the question that had been troubling him since Blanc had jumped Jamie in the tent. "Why was Mitch so determined the problem was Durand?"

Dean sighed. "They took an instant dislike to each other, and Mitch was a bit of a hot head. He had these… senses. He knew something was wrong, and he didn't like Durand so that was where he put all his focus. And then he found the ciphers in Durand's trunk and Blanc was barely on the radar after that. It was careless, but probably didn't really change the outcome. The Germans were already there. Do I want to ask what happened to Jamie?"

"Blanc killed him."

"Of course he did."

~~~~~

Their clothes had been found neatly folded on a dresser, and the Alexander family was waiting for them downstairs when they finally ventured out of the sanctuary of the quiet bedroom. 

Sam could almost feel Dean's awkwardness as he stood in front of them and tried to talk about the son that they had lost; son, uncle, nephew. No one in the Alexander family seemed to be quite the right age, and Tia answered Sam's narrow questions on the matter with a raised eyebrow and a knowing look. 

There were a lot of tears in the room by the time Dean finished, but also a sense of resolution, a damaging wound that at least could start to heal.

"The only thing I want to know," Dean concluded grimly, "is what happened to that snake, Blanc."

"He died," one of the women on the couch volunteered darkly. "We know what happened to all of the survivors."

"Racked to death in a tragic accident?" Dean asked hopefully.

"Drank himself to death in Berlin in 1952." 

"Too easy," Dean said with disgust.

"The dead are dead," Tia said. "We can't punish them more."

"So what now?" Sam asked.

Tia shrugged, graceful for all her years. "Nothing happens."

"But you know the truth."

"We know it. But the world?" She shrugged again. "There's no proof. No evidence to sway minds and hearts, and nothing to win by doing so. Mitch is gone. We're the only ones who needed to know."

"What about Jamie's family?" Dean asked. "The Johnston's?"

"All gone," one of the men on the couch said. "Jamie was an only child, and his parents and other relatives have long passed on or scattered."

"He would have liked you, as family," Sam said quietly, knowing it was absolutely true.

"I think we would have liked him too." Tia patted his arm. "Thank you."

~~~~~

"So they said they took care of the little matter of the hexing at the school?"

"Yeah," Sam slumped back in his seat. "I get the impression it might have been the kind of taking care that's hard to survive."

"Fine with me," Dean said with a shrug. "Razor blades in the stomach are hard to survive too. What did you think about the family?"

"I don't think they're a threat."

Dean snorted. "You must have met a different family than I did, because the people I met couldn't have been more of a threat if they'd had the word tattooed across their foreheads."

"Fine," Sam glared. "I don't think they're _our kind_ of threat."

"You mean you don't want to sic hunters on them."

"Would you want to be on their bad side?" Sam asked pointedly. "I don't think they're hurting anyone, Dean. I think they just want to be left alone."

"They can change _time_ , Sam."

"Exactly."

Dean mulled that over for a few minutes. "Okay, fine. What's next on our list?"

"Just like that?"

"Just like that, Sam. It's the job. It's our job."

Sam accepted that, and the conversation drifted back to their version of normalcy. Days passed, and bled into new days, and eventually one came where Sam didn't think of Jamie's life. Then another, and another, and finally a whole string of them. Days where he didn't catch Dean staring absently at nothing, humming songs that hadn't been heard on a radio since decades before they were born. Days when he didn't find himself staring upwards, gauging ceiling height and wind speeds and wondering how far into the blue he could get on a single tank of gas. 

Those were the days, but every night Sam closed his eyes on another motel pillow, he dreamed of flying.

End


End file.
